


Hints to Domestic Service

by pilindiel



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Industrial Revolution, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood sucking but in a sexy way, Feral Behavior, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, M/M, Marco PoV, Marco is Incredibly Thirsty and Incredibly Valid, Mutual Pining, Vampire!Jean, human!Marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/pseuds/pilindiel
Summary: The house looms menacingly over the hill as Marco’s carriage trundles down the winding country road.  He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not at all used to the richness of his clothes or the fresh country air.The mansion is grandiose - the stone whitewashed and stunningly intact - and Marco feels apprehension coil deep in his gut.The story of a young man, a mansion, and his trusty valet.
Relationships: Marco Bott & Jean Kirstein, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26
Collections: JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2020





	Hints to Domestic Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whipperschnapper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whipperschnapper/gifts).



The house looms menacingly over the hill as Marco’s carriage trundles down the winding country road. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not at all used to the richness of his clothes or the fresh country air.

The mansion is grandiose - the stone whitewashed and stunningly intact - and Marco feels apprehension coil deep in his gut.

Aiden Bodt, Marco’s father, purchased this country home after a series of great travel innovations that caused his small business to flourish exponentially. The Bodt family, originally barely above the poverty line, was now awash with funds from the booming steel industry, and Aiden spent little time spending them. The aristocracy world is entirely alien to Marco, and though he’s done his best to acquire all the literature his father recommended, it’s all a bit overwhelming and woefully sad.

If Aiden hadn’t insisted he needed Marco’s sharp mind to assist with the growing business and oversee management of their new home, Marco would have gladly stayed in his one room flat in London.

Despite his apprehensions, Marco was, above all else, a very good son.

The house, however, is something straight from Marco’s worst nightmares.

It looks like an old Gothic cathedral almost, the kind Marco would read about in waning candlelight in his room back in London. Dramatic and imposing, Marco shudders at the arched windows and ornate details on the stone.    
  
_ What sort of monsters could be lurking in those drafty halls? _ Marco wonders,  _ What sort of horrors stalk the nearby forests? _

The closer the carriage takes him, the deeper Marco’s dread sinks into his stomach. He has a feeling he knows exactly how this will unfold: he will be asleep in his austentatious four-poster bed, enjoying the cool summer breeze and some terrifying creature of the night will slip inside, rip out his throat and feast on his flesh!

Marco shudders at the thought. They’re just stories, he has to remind himself. Folktales and ghost stories that have no real merit on real life. No matter how terrifying and imposing the mansion is, in the end it is just a house, the forest is just a forest, and things like ghosts and werewolves and indeed,  _ vampires _ , are merely stories.

He tries to focus, instead, on the positives. The clean, country air will no doubt ease the strain on his lungs, and though Marco’s time was quite limited back in town, all of Marco’s pamphlets told him the aristocracy was quite fond of socializing. Perhaps he would even make a few friends.

The carriage lurches to a slow stop and Marco notes several bodies out front on the lawn. Marco recognizes one as his father, but the other three are entirely unfamiliar.

When Marco finally musters the courage to pull himself free of the safety of the carriage, Aiden introduces Marco to their new servants. 

Ah. Servants. Yet another hurdle Marco must grow accustomed to.

The first is a petite woman with striking red hair and a bright smile. Petra: the housekeeper.

The next is a slightly older gentleman. He’s a short, severe looking man with clouded eyes and dark hair that is somehow both unkempt and perfectly placed. Levi: the head butler.

They settle on the last servant and Marco’s breath catches. 

“This is Jean Kirschtein,” Aiden says briskly, “Though he has special military training, he is assigned to be your personal valet. Isn’t that lovely? A bodyguard and a servant all in one!”

“Yes,” Marco replies minutely, “Quite.”

Jean is a dashing young man who is simultaneously perfectly poised and yet somehow seems to be ready for any sort of mischief his fitted three piece suit and waistcoat will allow. He has an intricate golden chain nestled in a breast pocket that no doubt leads to an equally ornate pocket watch within. He’s a tad shorter than Marco, more wiry too, but he’s slender and agile in a way that causes Marco’s heart to constrict. His hair is flaxen, golden against the backdrop of the morning sun, and his skin is deathly pale. If it wasn’t for his composure, Marco would believe the poor man had one foot in the grave.

“It’s an honor to serve you, Mister Bodt,” Jean says. He bows, a perfect display of submission and servitude, and Marco feels the urgent need to adjust himself.

“There...there’s no need for such formalities,” Marco insists, “Truly.”

Jean hesitates, shoots a cursory glance to Levi, then straightens. “Very well,” he replies tightly, “Would Mister Bodt care for a tour of his new home?”

Marco thought the house looked large from the outside, but inside feels like a labyrinth. The four bedroom country dwelling is accessed via a colossal communal hall, complete with a carved staircase and stone fireplace. The kitchen is large and ornate, “farmhouse style”, Jean remarks cooly, and Marco notes that each bedroom overlooks the home’s dizzyingly landscaped grounds.

They conclude their tour at Marco’s very own room. The bed alone is enormous ( _ four poster _ ... Marco’s mind supplies unhelpfully) and could accommodate at least three people with their arms outstretched, and the walls are lined with baroque wood paneling. A pair of open double french doors lead out to a large balcony, and Marco watches as that crisp, country air ruffles the bangs dangling down Jean’s forehead.

Jean’s expression pinches imperceptibly, and he clears his throat.

“If the room doesn’t suit you, Mister Bodt,” he begins, “I can arrange for separate accommodations - “   
  
“No,” Marco assures quickly, tugging awkwardly at his cuffs, “It is quite, ah...suitable.”

Jean is quiet for a moment. 

“Very well,” he replies, “Does Mister Bodt require anything else?”

Marco wants to say no, but that twisting of his stomach causes him to float across the room to the double french doors, inspecting the handles. His discomfort must show, because Jean moves forward to join him.

The sun is high in the sky, but Jean manages to place himself in Marco’s shadow, shielding him from the light.

“Is something not to your liking?” he asks.

Marco bites the inside of his cheek, feeling foolish. “Would ah…Would it be at all possible to place a lock on these doors?”

Jean’s eyebrows pinch, perplexed. “I should be able to arrange such things,” he muses, “But, may I ask why?”

“I am worried for my safety.”

“I assure you, Mister Bodt,” Jean replies solemnly, “I am perfectly adept at attending to your every need and have vowed myself to protect you by any means necessary.” There’s a twitch to Jean’s lips then,  _ almost _ a smile, and he continues, “Though, I doubt we need worry about anyone ordinary crawling through your open windows.”

Marco takes a breath. “And what of...those who aren’t ordinary?”

“My apologies,” Jean says, raising an eyebrow, “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“I…” Marco feels his face grow hot from the admission, but presses forward all the same. “I worry for things that are...not human?” Jean stares at him blankly and Marco relents the last bit of composure he had as he sighs. 

“Ghouls.” he admits, “Werewolves. Vampires and the like…”

A startled laugh erupts from Jean then - something airy and sharp - and Marco’s chest flips. Jean looks carefree, his eyes crinkled in the corners. It’s a beautiful sound, Marco realizes, but there’s a slight edge to it that makes Marco feel like perhaps Jean knows something he doesn’t.

Either way, it defuses the tension in the room, and Marco finds himself smiling despite the embarrassment of it all.

“Understood,” Jean says once he’s calmed himself, “I will ensure locks are placed on your balcony doors as soon as possible.”

They share a small, indulgent smile, and Marco feels a gentle warmth flow through him. “Thank you.”

With a flourish, Jean bows and leaves Marco alone with his thoughts and the pretty, lingering scent of summer.

* * *

One rather exciting, though unintentional side effect of Aiden Bodt’s industrial endeavors was the occasional travel test. The senior Bodt would often take several day trips along his newest express lines to ensure they provide the utmost in satisfaction.

Train cars decked in Malaysian embroidery and cherrywood paneling. Dining rooms filled with brass and mahogany fixtures polished to a high shine and chairs with blue zebra-print upholstery separated by thick, velvet curtains for the utmost privacy.

And, of course, when Aiden was unavailable, Marco was pulled along to survey the train’s maiden voyage.

He was always stunned by the opulence and extravagance of it all.  _ Surely, only the aristocracy could afford such luxuries! _

A luxury, Marco reminds himself, he and his father are now obligated to indulge in.

Marco is thankful this trip is shorter than the rest. The sooner they wrap up this frivolity, the sooner he can return to his books and their secluded home and the small moments he is able to steal away with his charming, mysterious valet.

Breakfast on the Bodt Royal Scotsman this morning consists of bellinis followed by smoked salmon and scrambled eggs with caviar as the rails criss-cross the Thames at a sedate pace. Jean emerges from the kitchen and Marco nearly chokes on his champagne.

He’s sporting a green, double-breasted waistcoat high on his chest, and his suit makes him look lean but athletic. His black coat is tailored to fit his shoulders, and not for the first time, Marco feels an intense need to run his hands over the fabric.

Almost unnaturally smooth considering the gentle sway of the train, Jean delivers a breakfast of pastries, fruit salad, and strong black coffee, all presented on gilt-edged china and a silver tray. He’s precise and meticulous as he places each dish silently, leaning just far enough into Marco’s space that Marco quite forgets what he was meant to be doing.

“Won’t you sit?” Marco asks, attempting to alleviate some of the tightness within his chest.

It’s entirely improper, Marco knows. A servant sitting at the same table as the master? Their poor housekeeper would have a conniption if she heard Marco offer such a thing.

But, then again, Marco doesn’t quite see the reason for such an arbitrary separation. After all, Marco’s own family was merely a stone’s throw from servitude itself before his father’s business venture exploded. Surely that would give him a little bit of leeway.

He also hopes, foolishly, that perhaps his fondness for Jean will outweigh any proprietary slights he may incur from the offer.

Jean merely raises an immaculate eyebrow, giving Marco a glance from the side as he pours just the right amount of cream into Marco’s saucer.

“Is that a command, Mister Bodt?” he hums. Marco notices that little smile twitching at the corner of Jean’s lips again - a combination of intrigued and humbled - and Marco’s heart skips.

“It is an invitation,” Marco promises, his smile genuine as he offers the chair across from him, “If it pleases you, of course.”

The pleasure Marco feels when Jean sets himself down in that mahogany chair is immeasurable.

“Now then,” Marco says jovially, gesturing to the immense spread before them, “What would you like?”

Jean blinks at him, that same confused but endeared little smile on his face. “I beg your pardon, Mister Bodt?”

“Surely you know I cannot finish such delights on my own,” he replies, finally allowing himself a moment of reprieve, “So, what sort of things does the esteemed Mister Kirschstein enjoy?”

Jean’s smile twitches imperceptibly and Marco swears he catches a flash of beautifully white teeth. “Would you care to guess, Mister Bodt?” 

A thrill runs through Marco that permeates the very fiber of his being. There’s something so delectable when his trusty valet allows himself to be playful, and Marco adores how terribly clever and cheeky he can be.

Not one to delay, Marco hums noncommittally and surveys the spread before them. “Let’s see…” He muses, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “You don’t strike me as a Danish sort of fellow, so that and the croissants are out.”

Jean snorts, losing some of that propriety. “Is that so?”

“Indeed,” Marco continues, “Though, I do believe you enjoy your sweets from time to time.”

A sly smirk. A raised eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Marco beams, “You can’t hide your secrets from me!” 

Jean chuckles then, warm and pleased, and Marco’s ears burn pleasantly from the sound.

Finally, Marco settles on the tray of fruit and grins.

He reaches down slowly, picks up one of the decadent strawberries, and lifts it up delicately towards Jean.

“I am sure this will be to your liking,” Marco insists, “I promise it is quite fresh.”

Jean’s wide, hazel eyes shoot up to meet Marco’s before glancing back down at the offered treat. Marco watches Jean shift, notes the flutter of his eyelashes and the slightest tinge of pink to his cheeks. It shivers through Marco’s body but not from a chill. It’s something warm and deep, something delighted like a cat curled up before a fireplace.

“If…” Jean whispers, “If you insist.”

Marco holds the strawberry before Jean’s lips, and though Jean looks weary, he leans forward.

Jean’s lips are so soft, so warm against Marco’s fingers. Just the briefest touch of Jean’s tongue on his bare fingertips fires through Marco’s system like an electric shock, and Marco is forced to hold his breath to stop the groan that wants so desperately to crawl from his throat.

Jean’s eyelids flutter closed and he hums, soft and appreciative.

It burns at something deep within Marco, and he finds himself choking on a semblance of Jean’s name.

Jean’s eyes flick open to meet his and an intense heat flares through Marco’s veins. A deep, gnawing ache fills Marco’s chest, and he finds himself totally enraptured in Jean’s gaze, like a rabbit caught in a snare. The red juice from the strawberry stains Jean’s lips just so, and Marco finds himself drawn to it. It’s such a beautiful contrast to his normally pale skin and Marco’s heart staccatos at the lingering thought.

_ Red is quite a fetching color on him. _

“Do you like it?” Marco rasps, voice thick and low in his throat, “Is it sweet?”

Marco feels exposed, nervousness red-hot and invigorating. Breath short, he watches with rapt attention when Jean shakily licks his lips. It’s a timid gesture, something that makes Marco’s heart beat wildly in his ears, and he finds himself wondering what it would be like to reach out and touch those plump, pink lips himself, to run his fingers along that tantalizingly soft skin with the pad of his thumb, to taste the lingering sweetness.

He finds himself sliding closer as Jean remains agonizingly still. There’s something in Jean’s expression Marco can’t place. Like a combination of loneliness and desperation fighting like a storm behind his irises. Marco wants to reach out and smooth his fingers over that strain, to reassure and protect in a way he never has before.

“Jean,” Marco murmurs, somehow finding his voice, “I - “

The train lurches, whistle blowing, and Jean jumps like he’s been shocked. He stands immediately, cheeks flushed in a way Marco has never seen them, and hastily clears his throat. Marco’s pulse is thudding beneath his skin, the world muted to the frantic racing of his heart.

“If you…” Jean swallows. Shakes his head. Straightens. “Has Mister Bodt finished his breakfast?”

The question catches Marco off-guard and he blinks. He takes a breath. “Jean, I - ”

Jean doesn’t wait for him to finish before he’s stripped the table of nearly all its fineries in a flurry of showmanship and precision. Marco barely catches the sight of him before he’s retreated from the dining car, the door closing behind him with a resounding snap.

Slowly, almost mechanically, Marco reaches out and takes the saucer of coffee in his trembling hands.

It’s perfect, just as one would expect, and Marco tastes absolutely none of it.

* * *

And so the months pass.

They pretend as if the incident on the train never occurred and Marco wonders if this will always be how it is between them. An unmistakable pull towards each other that neither is allowed to act on that leaves them both wholly unsatisfied.

Marco isn’t certain he even has a word for what he feels. Is it just the jubilation of having found a companion? The joy of a growing friendship? The idea makes him scoff. Now, this feels deeper, more profound. A fondness that cannot be articulated with mere words.

Either way, Marco finds his gaze lingering on his valet more often than not, puzzled but no less tender. To say nothing of the rush of delight that floods through him when their eyes meet and a gentle flush rises on Jean’s cheeks.

That’s why it is suddenly strange when Jean does not greet him one morning.

Marco arrives at breakfast unchaperoned and when he inquires of Jean’s whereabouts, Petra merely gives him a strange smile.

“Jean has become ill, I’m afraid,” she says politely, “But don’t you worry, Mister Bodt! He assured me he would be well soon.”

“Should I take his breakfast to him?” Marco wonders.

“Absolutely not!” Petra snaps. 

They sit in stilted silence before Petra finally rights herself, giving Marco’s shoulder a small, apologetic pat. “There’s no need, Mister Bodt,” she promises, softer, “But you best not be bothering him. We don’t want you to catch whatever he may have.”

Numbly, Marco nods, though the conversation runs through his addled mind the rest of the day.

That night, Marco finds it impossible to sleep. The mattress pokes his back in all the wrong places and the wind from the impending storm rattles his windows, howling through the cracks in the rafters. He slides in and out of consciousness, barely focused, when a startling crash causes his heart to stop.

Bolting upright, Marco pauses for several frantic heartbeats. A low, deep groan emanates from the other side of the wall and bile rises up Marco’s throat.

**_Jean’s room!_ **

Marco’s muscles don’t even protest as he whips out of bed, lighting a candle with frantic fingers. The light from the fire is gentle and warm, but none of it reaches Marco’s chilled skin as he slips on his boots and flies from the room.

Everything feels distant, like the world is both moving in slow motion and too fast. Jean’s room is right across the hall, and yet it feels like it takes eons to reach the solid oak door.

“Jean?” he hazards, but his voice feels far away and all Marco receives in response is the sound of rasping breath and the shrieking of the wind.

Marco takes a moment. Braces himself. With a grunt, he shoves the old, oak door open with a haunting creak.

He nearly staggers back at what’s inside.

Jean’s room is in tatters. The beautiful, four-poster bed is torn apart, feathers and expensive fabric scattered across the floor. The beautiful, ornate mirror of his dresser is shattered, large shards of glass joining the mess. There’s a figure in the corner, huddled amongst the shadows, and Marco’s heart clenches.

With determined breath, Marco steps forward into the gloom.

The flickering light illuminates the darkness and Marco’s worst fears are realized. Jean’s normally kept hair is a mess, as if he had spent the last several hours running his hands frantically through it. He’s still in his suit from the day before, but it’s tattered and torn, ripped to ribbons that cling to Jean’s athletic but lean form. He claws at the remnants of his jacket with long, sharp nails.

The sudden intrusion makes his head whip up with inhuman speed that makes Marco’s flesh crawl. 

Jean’s eyes black are as pitch, pupils stained a menacing red. His skin is paler than Marco has ever seen it, blue veins spider-webbing across his hollow cheeks. His face is contorted into a toothy, terrifying grimace, and Marco notes sharp, hauntingly white fangs.

“Jean,” Marco gasps, “What...What happened?”

“Go away...” Jean growls. His voice is chilling, vibrating through the air, but Marco senses there’s something amiss in his tone, something fragile. Something afraid. As if startled by his own outburst, Jean curls in on himself further, turning away from the glimmering candlelight.

_ He’s in pain,  _ Marco realizes.

“I’m not going away,” Marco says resoundingly, clenching his trembling hand at his side. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Jean snarls, flashing those sharp teeth once more, and suddenly it all clicks into place: the aversion to sunlight, the pale skin, the unnatural movements.

Marco’s breath shivers out of his chest.

“You’re a vampire,” he whispers, as if he can barely believe his own words, “Aren’t you?”

Jean shudders, whimpering softly as he digs his nails into his arms.

Faced with the reality, faced with the truth, Marco is surprised he isn’t nearly as terrified as he thought he would be. In fact, with this truth comes a startling clarity, and Marco’s expression hardens even as a heaviness settles in his stomach.

“You need to feed, don’t you?”

Jean doesn’t answer, but Marco can see it in the way Jean fidgets that his hypothesis is correct.

A sense of determination fills Marco then, and he follows it despite how ludicrous it seems. He approaches Jean cautiously, like one would a frightened animal, and his voice is gentle when he says his name.

Jean whines, looking so very small, and Marco’s resolve hardens. Picking up one of the discarded shards of the mirror, Marco grits his teeth and drags it across the skin of his palm, slicing it open from the ring finger down the crease.

The stinging smell is immediate and Jean whips around to face it. His expression pinches, a mixture of hunger and deep sorrow, but Marco ignores it in favor of completing his task.

Gently, Marco places his hand on Jean’s trembling shoulder and guides him to his waiting palm. Jean’s wet, waiting mouth opens expectantly, his nostrils flaring at the sharp scent of blood in the air, but he still flicks those wide, panicked, whiteless eyes at Marco for confirmation.

Marco gives him a small, fond smile.

“Go on,” Marco murmurs, “I know you won’t hurt me.”

With a hungry, guttural snarl, Jean surges forward.

There’s the sharpness of something sliding easily through Marco’s flesh at the first drag of Jean’s warm, wet tongue against his skin, but it’s drowned out nearly instantly as the venom spreads throughout his veins. His breath hitches as the warm tingling overcomes his senses and makes his knees weak.

Distantly, Marco remembers reading that bites from vampires were a painful, terrifying affair. This, however, is an entirely different experience.

Jean drags his wet, hot mouth along Marco’s wound with caution and tenderness, lavishing the skin of Marco’s palm with rapt attention. His tongue flicks and laps desperately at the bloodied gash on Marco’s hand, and Marco finds himself growing too warm, his body shivering. 

Pleasure rocks through Marco in slow, easy waves, and if Marco wasn’t supported by the wall behind him, he’s certain he would have long since collapsed.

Unconsciously, Marco grips Jean’s hair with his free hand as firmly as he can without being rough, desperate to steady himself as Jean closes his eyes and redoubles his efforts.

Raw want curls in the pit of Marco’s stomach, something hungry and sinful, and he can’t stop from babbling.

“Ah,” Marco groans, head flung back against the wall, “I knew...I knew it.” A hiss of breath, another shiver of pleasure. Jean’s gratuitous sucking pauses for a moment, eyes an intense maroon as blood smears down his chin, painting that porcelain skin in swathes of startling scarlet. 

Marco almost laughs from the ecstasy of it all. “I knew you would look good in red.”

Jean moans, each second growing a little more frantic, a little more desperate. Marco curls his fingers tightly in Jean’s hair, needing him closer, needing his touch, needing  **_more_ ** . 

With a few stuttered breaths, Jean finally pulls away with a lewd pop, cheeks rosy and flushed, lips full and red. 

Marco slouches against the wall, chest heaving as he watches him. His heart is still pounding in his ears, but when their gazes finally meet, Marco is grateful to see white and beautiful hazel have returned to Jean’s expressive eyes.

Swallowing thickly, Marco manages to find his voice. “Better?” he rasps.

Jean trembles as he nods, removing a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He shuffles over on his knees and - with gentle reverence - laves his tongue over Marco’s wound. There’s a sharp, stinging sensation and Marco watches in awe as the wound stitches itself closed, disappearing from his skin with nary a scar.

With a small, satisfied smile, Jean bandages Marco’s palm with the cloth, tying it off tightly. “Much better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Love of my LIFE ANNIEEEEE
> 
> You have no idea how incredibly difficult it was to keep this quiet from you!! When you were like "oh, what prompt did you get?" I was like "SHIT SHIT MAKE SOMETHING UP JDKLSHFJKSLS" 
> 
> Anyway, I am so glad i got you as my giftee and I sincerely hope you love this self-indulgent vampire fic. I change the prompt around some, but I hope extremely feral Jean makes up for it. Love you oodles and if you ever want to chant more about this AU because I have THOUGHTS, let me know :)
> 
> Happy New Year and thanks so much for being my incredibly talented and amazing friend!


End file.
